


Just lay there, and bleed

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Cock & Ball Torture, Cuase it's Wade, Emotional Hurt, Humiliation, Masochism, Multi, Sadism, Snuff, Suicide, Wade makes terrible life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 05:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: There's a universe out there where he accepts Ness' death, where he puts together a super duper fucking team that ultimately falls apart and finds himself an F-Word, all his own. He thinks that sounds pretty fucking sweet, but as the great Sammy J once said, this ain't that kinda movie. And in this universe, things suck, and keep on sucking.





	Just lay there, and bleed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katscratchlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katscratchlite/gifts).



> Written for Kat with the sole guidelines being: I want torture porn. That's what this is, nothing soft and sweet here folks, just a man getting murdered and jacked off. Happy Halloween Binch.

Sometimes life leaves you breathlessly fucked, and bleeding out in a gutter. Sometimes it’s a gentle lover, wining and dining you til you’re dizzy, ditsy, and vulnerable. Then it fucks you with your own broken feet and throws you in a fucking lake for the fish.

Point is, Life is Fucked, capital Shit.

Wade knows that, he’s known it for a real long time. Before Weapon X-Y-Z, before the cancer, even before Special Forces. He’s had what the social workers called “ _ a rough time of it _ ”, so he knows just how fucking shitty shit can get.

“Harder,” he grunts, spitting tooth chips and blood, oooh there is definitely some internal bleeding going on. Maybe a little haemorrhaging? A bit of rupturing even?

He can’t be too sure, the world’s thick jelly right now, bordering on the cusp of something beautiful. Wade can feel it, the floaty-oatiness that comes with severe internal damage and blood loss. There’s also some pleasure thrown in there, just to keep things interesting, but it’s a sick kinda pleasure.

It’s like the little flip in your gut when a neck goes snap-crack-crackle n’ pop. Or the bad kinda good when you shove your thumbs in a man’s eyes n’ just push until all that sweet eye ooze seeps out.

Wade seizes on the floor, spraying blood and choking on his own tongue, ah full body muscle contractions are always so dramatic. He feels a shoulder pop, feels something in his back give, and moans guttural, barely sounds human. That’s him though, barely human, zombie for hire, Wade Wilson at yer service.

“If that’s what you want, handsome,” Francis laughs, laughs cause he’s a sick fuck that gets off on this shit. Not that Wade can judge too much, right now at least, he’s getting a pretty good deal here and dear Francis is more than delivering.

And deliver he does, a swift kick to the gut that is. Wade coughs a scream, the sound is literally punched out of him, along with more blood. His body wants to curl up, cover his head, cover his face, and cower in pain for a while, but Francis won’t let it. Wade likes that about the fucker, he’s determined, a professional sadist that never lets anything get in his way, not even a bullet to the chest.

“s all y-yuh got?” Wade wheezes, relishing in the sharp-dull ache of another rib breaking clean in two. Fuck that smarts. Fuck that’s good.

Pain’s the only good thing left in his crapshoot of a life. No more merc work, because Weasel is a slimy bastard that’d sell his own mother for a buck. No more revenge cause he got that and still ain’t satisfied. No more X-Men, not that he ever was an X-Person, too willing to kill to save people which was “ _ bad _ ”.

No more….no more. All he’s got is pain now, and lots of it.

“Good to see you haven’t changed,” Francis sighs, happy, actually happy, at least someone is.

Then there’s a knife tearing through his throat, twelve-inches of dull, serrated steel. The cut’s ragged, Wade can feel it, sharp and stomach turning, he’d throw up if his oesophagus wasn’t currently detached from his body. The last strands of skin snap, pulled apart by sheer force, and he’s gone.

* * *

Nessa’s dead, Ness is dead, she’s fucking d-e-a-d  **_dead_ ** .

“Please, please baby, please,” he moans, gathering up her body, holding it close. She’s all he’s got, please!

There’s blood, there’s fucking blood everywhere, hers, his. There’s the fucking bullet on their fucking bed. Passed right through him, didn’t it, punches its way right through his heart and out the other side. Fucking Wade Wilson can’t even be a god damn meat shield, everyone, point and laugh at him!

Bullet passed through him, ripped right through his girl. Now she’s dead on the floor and he’s fine!

Wade’s fine, Deadpool’s fine. He’s always fucking fine.

“Ness, Ness,” he cries, voice breaking, tears blurring her beautiful face. This is his fault, it’s Sergei’s for shooting her, but Wade’s for not saving her.

Sergei’s gotta die.

* * *

See, f unny thing about sex traffickers, they’re terrible at covering their tracks, complete shit at it. Deadpool found them in a day, heh, weird how the cops couldn’t right?

“Hello boys,” Deadpool sings, shooting the first two fuckers he sees, “who ordered the Steak Diane?”

Funnier thing about sex traffickers, they’re highly flammable. Just add a little gasoline, some c3, a little vodka for taste, and they light right up.

He laughs when one of the flaming pieces of shit flails around, legless and screeching like someone’s got his dick in a vice. Deadpool shoots a finger gun at the guy as his proliferated lungs stop working and he slumps flat on the ground. Poor things, no katana resistance whatsoever, should’ve gotten the vaccine, but he’s guessing all the smoke didn’t help either. Fucked both ways, may they rest in shit.

Speaking of smoke, the whole place’s on fire. Deadpool can hear the walls creaking and shrieking as they crack, can even hear the tiny tinkle of glass in the distance. There’s also the smoke clogging up his own lungs, scratching and itching as it spreads, and he’s gotta say, not as bad as the cancer.

“Listen Jerry, can I call you Jerry? Between me and you Jer, I’m not really an arson kinda guy,” Deadpool admits, wheezing a little at the end there. Ha, the smoke’s really getting somewhere now, whoo boy.

And he’s not.

He’s lying on the floor, head pillowed on Jerry’s very still, very dead torso. The fire’s raging louder, roaring really, and it’s music to his deformed ears. Hmm, that’s kinda fucked, considering the last time he was trapped in a burning building and all, but it’s kinda cathartic. Wade Wilson died in a fire and Deadpool rose from the ashes, it’s poetic. 

Right now, Deadpool’s dying in a fire, and who knows what’ll come out of ashes. If Miss Dion’s right, and he’s not saying she is, something beautiful but uh doubtful. Ness’s dead and she took all the beautiful with her.

“But y’know, I’m really feeling it tonight,” he coughs, and hacks, and ew is that phlegm?

“So gross,” he hisses, rolling the mask up to spit out the bloody mucus. That makes the smoke worse of course, no filter between his nose and whatever chemical concoction is floating around right now. Sex traffickers just loved having meth labs in the back rooms, to maximize profits of course. 

In the distance, sirens; noble firefighters on their way to battle the ferocious inferno. In the nearness, himself; hacking and wheezing but not moving a single inch. The pain is…it’s there, it’s always there.

He got shot in the stomach when he burst in, felt the lining rupture, did a backwards flip while bile spilled out into his intestines. He got a baseball bat to the back, two vertebrae shattered, and he smiled helter-skelter under his mask. Sharp pain, slow pain, dull pain, more pain, it’s his one last friend in the world.

Now, the pain’s coming in fits and spurts, like the very last drops of blood from a squirter. His chest is, ironically, on fire, because the smoke’s thicker now, even on the floor. The flames are licking at the very tippy-top rafters of the warehouse, and Deadpool’s sure the firefighters can’t save this. Can’t save him.

Which is good. Last thing he needs is some poor sack finding his bones regrowing their meat. Plus, he deserves this.

He deserves to slowly choke to death, to hyperventilate and beat up on the floor like a really ugly fish. He deserves to cook, to feel the fire eating along his limbs, burning his suit away then his flesh.

He can feel his blood boil and whoopsie daisy, he’s screaming, ain’t he? Guttural and husky but yup, those are screams.

Funniest thing is, he’s not sure if he’s screaming because the pain is so much, too much, or because the pain’s not enough. It’s too…general, all over his body, roasting his eyeballs and broiling his heart, but it’s not enough. How isn’t it enough?

He’s clinging to the last little bits of life when the rafter falls right on top of him and Jer. Skull cracks open and his brain fries, but he’s already gone.

* * *

His rampage takes him back home, to Al, to the X-Mansion. To the Ice-Box, which he’s gotta say, unexpected.

Now he’s sharing a cell with a kid that has no reason to be here. Russ’s only here because Colossus’s too much of a coward to admit Essex house is evil and do something about it. High and mighty X-Men don’t ever want to make the hard choices, can’t even make the easy ones. Their reputations are more important than kids apparently. So Russel is here because of fucking cowards, and Wade’s here because, well maybe he belongs here.

Maybe this is how he deserves to die, in pain, agony, cause he can’t protect the poor schmuck that put their faith in him. God, he’s just the poster boy for bad life choices, huh? And he doesn’t mean his own choices, oh no no no, he means other people’s. Ness made a bad call with him, Colossus did too but that’s on Iron Dick himself, and now this kid. They’re all terrible judges of character.

Wade’s waiting to die, ugly and alone, curled up on his hard, little cot when the alarms go off. The prison goes up in a riot, cells open, there’s an explosion, guards are busting bitches left and right, and Wade knows it’s too dangerous to stay where they are. Takes some finagling but he gets the door open, slips out and so does Russ’, trailing after Wade and really flexing those terrible decision skills.

Their cell blows up and Wade’s shoving his way through the cramped, fighting crowd. He doesn’t know where he’s going or why but whoever’s breaking into the Box just blew up their cell so he’s running. That could’ve been his one and only chance to bite it and he doesn’t take it. Could’ve been a nice cinematic death in a middle of a prison riot, a perfect comicbook cliffhanger. Born out of fire, dies in an explosion, can you say cinematic parallel?

Wade can, he can say it five times fast, but he doesn’t got the time cause a grumpy old fucker with a Winter Soldier arm is trying to kill Russel. ‘N Wade Wilson’s _nooo_ hero, refer to Deadpool 1, but he’s got his morals and letting a kid die is totally against them. So Wade fights.

He uses a piece of grate cause he’s not as strong without his handy dandy x-factor. He tackles the guy, shoves that fancy gun at the ceiling cause he can’t tank bullets right now. He gets a heavy gun butt to the stomach and his breath goes whooshing away, another one to the face and his nose just snaps. And that hurt,  _ shit  _ that hurts, but he can’t stop.

Wade gets up and gets a hand shoved into his fucking stomach, fingers curling around his fucking ribs, and then he's thrown into a fucking railing like it's nothing. Fuck that hurts! It’s a knock out, a haymaker if he ever did get one, but Wade doesn’t pass out like he’d very much like to. It’s just pain, he’s dealt with pain before, but it’s been so long since it’s been so real.

Been so long since the pain stuck. Wade’s down on his ass, breathing hard through his broken nose, and all he can think about is how good it feels. His freshly broken ribs are screaming at him and his lungs are burning and he’s a little dizzy too but it all feels so good.

The world’s industrial chaos, sparks’re flying, guards’re shouting, prisoners’re fighting, and Wade’s a little high on how good everything feels. Soldier boy shoves a gun in his face, stares him down with a delicious thousand-yard glare, and Wade can’t help but wonder what his cock tastes like. He’s fighting for his, and a kid’s life, and he’s thinking about cock.

He barely has enough blood left for his brain to think quick and pull that fancy gun down to shoot off the collar. The impact crushes his throat, breaks one or two finicky neck bones, and Wade groans in pain, the good pain. He’s hard in his dreary prison pants and his brain’s buzzing with all those feel-good chemicals.

Healing factor’s back in full effect now, since the crushed throat didn’t kill him, but he still feels so good. Later, he can say he tackled Soulja Boy to save Russel, broke his back in a horrendously disgusting way, for Russel. ‘S what he’ll say if anyone asks, spoiler: no one does, but really. Really, truly, he tackles Tell Em, because he wants more of that sweet-neat pain.

‘N Cable does not disappoint. With a knife up between his ribs, sliding home in his heart, twisting so it jerks a chamber out with it. Wade’s barely got the breath to spare, but he moans breathy and delirious at the spike of “ _ good good fuck good yes! _ ”

Wade’s back in top form, well his arm’s resetting his broken, garotte bones, but he’s fighting fit. He’s got a hand up, ready to engage, and Cable fucking wrecks him. That metal arm punches hard god damn it! A chop to the neck almost takes his fucking head off, jab to the chest definitely liquifies part of a lung, punch to the back severs vertebrae instantly.

A few quick hits and Wade’s gasping on the ground, reeling from the pain. Throbbing, aching, so much he’s almost numb with it. His brain’s a sparky rave right now, hopped up on his own feel-good chemicals for once, not an ounce of coke in sight. He huffs against the rough, unfinished floor, humping it just a bit, only a bit, because there’s still a fight going on here.

Wade finishes their fight the way he finishes most things; full of drama while fucking up whatever relationships he’s got left. Russel runs off, Wade pulls the pin on a future grenade, and him ‘n Cable go bouncing away down a mountain.

_ Smack! _

Rock in the back, stabbing, ripping through the shitty jumpsuit and breaking skin.

_ Crunch! _

Head slamming into a boulder, soft little skull smashing open and there goes half his brain.

_ Crack! _

Free-fall sprawling then punching through the ice and into a lake. God everything’s so cold, talk about a cold shower huh? A bubble of air burbles from his mouth and Wade gasps.

* * *

If this was his movie, in the so-called “ _ good timeline”, _ then he would’ve climbed his way out of that lake after another talk with Ness, renewed with purpose and drive. He’d get to Wease and Wease’d help him set up the second act fight, something incredibly cinematic and sexy that inevitably ends in failure cause Act 3, duh. He would end this whole shebang with a brand new, found family, fulfil every millennial’s dream and become the poster boy for Big Moods everywhere.

That’s not how it goes, it could, but it doesn’t. Wade does not find his way out of the lake for a good few days and by the time he gets back to the city, Russel’s dead. Essex house is also dead, burned to the ground, and the fucking Juggernaut is on the loose. He’s not even the only one, there’s a whole prison convoy of dangerous, homicidal mutants on the loose, and Deadpool’s late to the party.

He stumbles into Sister M’s still wearing his prison rags, still a little frostbitten, still a little manic, and Wease calls the fucking cops on him. There’s no “ _ Hey Wade _ ”, no “ _ God you look like a testicle with teeth _ ”, not even a “ _ Dopinder, get the mop! _ ”. Wade barely gets a step inside before there’s a gun shoved in his face, more being aimed at his head, and Weasel on the phone with DMC.

Wade takes a nice long second to feel betrayed and angry and completely exhausted, then he shoves all that shit in a box, and books it. A few quick draws fire after him, couple bullets hit him, but they only tear through his liver and kidneys, both things he can live without. He darts across the street in the mid-day traffic, gets clipped and dislocates a hip, but he doesn’t stop running.

He’s not the best at disappearing but he’s still pretty damn good at it, and he’s got nothing to lose. When he scrambles over a fence, he just falls over the other side, when he gets onto a rooftop and jumps for another one, he doesn’t bother rolling to lessen the shock. Breaks an ankle, sprains a wrist, but they’re fine by the time he’s up and running again.

Clambering up fire escapes, dashing across roads and highways, he runs even though no one’s chasing cause someone will be. Wease knows where half his hideouts are, Al knows a few more and for now, she’s just as deep in the shit as Weasel is. So he doesn’t stop at any of those, no change of clothes, nothing but the dirty yellow rags on his back. By the time Wade stops running, it’s night time, he’s in a whole other state, and he’s not even tired.

A whole other fucking state because his supposed friend decided to call the fucking cops on him. Weasel was the only friend he had in this fuckin’ country, helped him get a passport, a green card. He thought he could trust the guy but it’s probably for the best.

Deadpool’s a criminal, highly wanted for his “ _ part _ ” in releasing the mutants. Bastards think he was helping Cable get in, helped Cable attack the convoy. He hates that assumption shit, yeah they’re right about him  _ wanting  _ to do all that but he didn’t and he sure as hell wasn’t helping John Conner.

What’s a poor mutant to do? Mutate? Eh, Merc.

Kill, the answer’s kill. He kills his way through the bounty hunters that come after him, some real John Wick shit, complete with a pencil getting shoved in his own throat. He kills the random DMC officers he meets along the way, kills a few scumbags before they can tattle, and he sorts through the shit show that’s his life now.

Deadpool’s a big enough name in the merc world to get him some not-so-great jobs. Less high calibre than his old stuff, no drug rings or sex traffickers, but the pay’s okay. And if he offers to do the hit at a discount, provided his employers don’t report him, then the pay’s kinda shit but them’s the breaks kids. 

Wade kills his way through a few months, scrounging up enough money to buy himself a nice, dark corner of Alaska where there’s no one around for miles, just him and the wilderness. If Wolverine can steal his R-rating, then Deadpool’s stealing that bushman bill schtick right back. Only, he doesn’t live in a miserable little cabin he made with his own two hands. Deadpool’s got the scratch so Wade pays to have a nice house built and gets his meals airdropped in, he even has a snowmobile for those cold winter days.

People still want him dead, they’ll always want him dead, but he’s making something good for himself. Which is probably why it’s so fucking dissatisfying. Good and Wade Wilson are antonyms, opposites, don’t fucking go together.

This ain’t his movie, but if it was, then this is the rock bottom. He’s alone, depressed, still trying to die, got the whole world against him, and no matter what he does, Ness refuses to talk to him. She just sits in that fucking chair, staring out the window like the world’s hottest gangbang is going on out there.

So, it only makes sense that rock bottom is when the turning point comes, and come it does, in the form of an offer so huge his jaw actually drops. And a partner that should be dead because what the fuck is this? A proper Marvel flick?

“Well hello there handsome,” Francis growls, low and British and without an ounce of worry despite the .50 cal pointed at his dick.

* * *

Getting hired by the Super Solider of the Grimdark Future™ to work with his jackass ex-torturer is not where Wade thought this was going. This is some serious comic shit, the kinda shit that happens when new writers wanna make a name for themselves even though they can’t fucking draw feet or know what character building looks like. Getting paid to destroy oil pipelines, take out megarich, wealth-hoarding asshats, and engaging in covert ops against small nation states is the kinda shit that only flies in comics. Lucky for him, this is a comic movie, eh.

So, reporting to “ _ Cable, call me anything else and I’ll fuck you to death with your own broken feet _ ” and working with “ _ Ajax, you idiot _ ”, isn’t all that impossible. Sure, it took a little finagling, a little plot twisting, but here he is. God he hopes Ness is proud of him. Not only did he fuck up her advice, now he’s actively fucking the rest of the world over too. This is exactly the kinda thing she would’ve loved, in a roundabout “ _ Wade Wilson you fucking dumbass, how dare you _ ” kinda way.

Important questions first though. How’s Francesca alive? Well dear viewer, like he said, plot holes, comic rewrites and Movie Magic™. Wade thinks at least, he’s not exactly sure which universe this is anymore, maybe a What If? that’s getting discontinued in a month?

As for Cable, well, that’s more plot twisty goodness. He’s already killed the kid, despite Wade’s mediocre efforts, so what’s the hold up? Why no zappy-zap back to the future? Uh, messiah complex? Stay in the past, fuck shit up, and make the future less dystopia more Providence-esque utopia? Only without the crashing into the ocean and lobotomy parts of the story of course.

“Aw, you’ve gone all quiet on me, what’s wrong handsome, missing your pretty hooker?” Francisco taunts while Wade regrows an arm. Wade glares and proves just how ambidextrous he is by flipping off the asshole with his fully-intact-not-a-bit-broken arm. Cause hey, co-workers were shit, was he right or was he right?

Currently, they’re holed up in one of Cable’s super-secret hideouts in Antigua. The mission went fine, swimmingly as the fish said, but there’s a lot of heat on them at the moment. There’s a lot to be said for local law enforcement not giving two dicks about international conventions or Swiss torture laws. Cable’s ordered them to lay low for the rest of the week, and for once, neither of his “ _ Dogs of War” _ are complaining.

Stupid name yeah but Wade’s kinda liking it, sounds all badass, like the Four Horsemen of Apocalypse. He thinks he was a Horseman once, probably didn’t like it, but it was a definite career high. Jury was still out on what being a Dog was doing for him.

A week resting, sipping fruity alcohol and soaking in some sun ain’t nothing to sneeze at though, so they don’t complain when they get the chance. Yeah, neither of ‘em get tired anymore but shit starts to wear on the soul, man. For Wade at least, he’s used to freelancing and picking his targets, real sacks of shit that deserve what’s coming to ‘em and checking their pockets for spare change after.

Being a soldier of fortune is a hard routine to get back into, the early mornings, late nights, coups every other month. Tough stuff, but not as tough as hacking, chopping, shooting guns all cool, it’s what he does, cause he’s Deadpool, sexy motherfucker~

“Or is it the hand? I could lend you one,” Francois offers, voice all low and deep, and Wade frowns. Cause he heard that wrong right? Douche King’s offering him a gun or something, a knife, maybe one of those fancy lil airplane vodkas. Not a hand, that’d be too nice, and this cock thistle definitely ain’t nice.

Wade’s only working with him cause of the money. He’s got a rep as a merc that’s good for any work, need someone unalived, he’s your guy, but it’s been harder to get jobs. He thinks Weasel started blacklisting anyone who hired him, no access to the Sister Maggie’s merc job fair if you dealt with Deadpoolio, harsh. Cable provides a steady income and steady missions that are movie worthy juants of their own but they keep his brain mostly occupied. Who knows what Cable offered the Soap Man but it’s good enough to keep him around and working with Wade.

Wade considers it one of work not-perks having him around, but he’s exceptional at ignoring shit he doesn’t like. Most of the time. Middle of a fight? He’s never heard of teammates. Stuck in a room slowly filling with water? Good thing he was alone. Listening to Cable rant about not being a stupid fucking jackass? Ughhh there was food he could be eating, alone of course.

Right now though? Post-fight, licking wounds and counting bullets? Yeah, not as easy as it usually is, cause now, is when Wade goes quiet. His brain’s funny, most of the time it’s hopped up on adrenaline and his drug of the day, it’s running too quick to settle down and simmer. After fights though, when his healing factor’s on cool down, so to speak, and he’s taking a well-deserved rest, his brain shuts down, more or less.

‘S weird. Everything goes quiet up there, and Wade’s blinking slow and stupid. His jabber jaw hangs loose and takes the chance to heal up before his brain restarts and he goes on a rant about the third Spidey reboot in a decade.

Unfortunately, the cool down’s when Francine gets talky, taunty, and flirty, to fill the silence or something. Wade figures it’s just the high from the fight, saw it dozens of times in Special Forces, usually in the rookies, the fresh meat. They’d see one weency bit of action and cream their fucking pants.

Or, more accurately, try to cream someone else’s pants. It’s the adrenaline rush, gets people worked up and horny, makes ‘em reckless and just a widdle sex wild. He remembers back when he was a wee lad with his first gun after his first kill, he jacked it like three times in the shower and had some major chafing. He kinda misses it actually, the feel good high, but he’s a big, established mercenary now and his brain’s all fuckied up.

“Now now Franny, if you wanted to touch my dick, all you had to do was ask,” Wade mumbles, sniffing when his hand grows two more wrist bones. Ah babies, they had life so good, growing all those fiddly little bone things and not remembering a second of it. What he wouldn’t give to be a baby right now, preferably one that’s getting aborted tomorrow.

Too much? Yeah he probably went too far, too racy, even for Deadpool. He should retract that before the studio got sued-

“May I?” Franklin the fucking turtle asks and complete derails Wade’s elaborate court case fantasy. He was gonna wear a suit and everything, be his own lawyer and represent himself. Now he’s gotta come back to reality and this shitty beach house where a shitty guy is making shit jokes.

“I’m sorry what?” he asks, scratching at his ear because maybe he didn’t hear right. Maybe there’s a bullet in his ear canal and he’s hearing wrong and stealing gags from other heroes but shh. All’s fair in love and parody.

“Get you off, make you cum, stroke your cock,” Fuck Face lists off like it’s nothing, shrugging like he offers to fuck all of his former prisoners. Wade takes a few seconds to consider those words, parse them through rigorous decoders and translate them into all eight languages he knows, including pig latin.

They sound just as ridiculous in German as they do English, just as fucked up and stupid in Spanish, so he figures he heard right. And because he heard right, he pulls out a gun and points it right at the fucker’s head. A heart shot wasn’t enough but maybe a headshot will be, who gave a fuck what Cable did or didn’t want? He should’ve expected this, Wade blowing Francine’s brains away, ripping him to pieces, burning him alive.

The T-900’s all-knowing right? Got the last hundred years ram-cram-jammed in that super brain of his. He’s ten different kinds of smart so he probably planned for this.

“Take it back,” Wade says, calmly, hear that?  **_Calmly_ ** .

His spleen finally regrows itself, slotting back into place, and Wade doesn’t so much as wince, cause he’s a badass. And cause he doesn’t want to miss if Dick Tip over there moves.

“I. Want. To. Get. You. Off,” Bald and Bastard says, biting the end of each word with a sharp  _ thk _ . Taking a step closer with every clack until he’s standing over Wade, towering like he used to when Wade was strapped down to a bed. Ohohoho but he’s not strapped down anymore, now is he?

“Make one wrong move and say goodbye to your nuts,” Wade warns happily, flipping the safety off. Now, it’s a regular old Mexican standoff, Fucko either backs off or he loses his dangly bits.

Part of him wants Dish Soap over there to touch him, get a hand around his ankle and yank him close. He wants to pull the trigger, tighten his finger and _ bang! _ Nothing would make him happier. He’s over his murderous, face-fixing rampage, mostly because he thought he killed the fucker, but he’s never gonna be an Ajax fan. And if any of those exist out there, go fuck yourselves folks.

Another part of him, the real fucked up, sick in the head, masochistic piece of  _ shit  _ part, wants Francis to pin him down, one hand around his throat, another around his cock. He wants it hard, fast and chaffing. A dry hand around his cock, jacking him off painfully fast, and another hand around his throat, fingers digging in hard enough to pop and break bone. He doesn’t want soft and sweet, not anymore, he doesn’t  _ deserve  _ it.

Ness was his soft and sweet, she was the gentle fingers trailing down his cock, coaxing him harder. Ness was the one that’d tie him up with silk, with padded cuffs, and be the sugar sweet domme he needed to take him out of his head. And she was the sugar sweet darling that’d stick around and put him back together again.

God she was great, God he loved her, and fuck he’s so lost without her. Everything’s sour and salty and bitter without her, everything’s a shade of red because that’s his colour, it brings out the bloodshot in his eyes. He let her die, so he doesn’t deserve anything good anymore, he deserves to suffer.

So that part of him, the fucked-up part, wants Francis to fuck him. Make him cum, jack him off and crush his throat, and leave him somewhere between dead and dying on the floor.

“Alright, alright, maybe next time,” the British fuckstick chuckles, actually really chuckles like this is a naughties YA story.

“That’s right, back off, go colonize the locals or something,” Wade mutters, resting his gun on his thigh, but he doesn’t turn the safety back on. He also doesn’t acknowledge the half chub he’s got going in his pyjama pants. That’s for another day, when he’s got Bea & Arthur and both hands and a real good safe word.

Definitely something to revisit though.

* * *

They don’t revisit it for another month and a half because Cable maybe has a premonition and sends them off on different missions. Wade gets to do what he does best, and hack n slash his way through a drug cartel, and take people hostage so he can squeeze em for info. Cock thistle goes somewhere not there, and Wade gets a chance to fucking breathe.

He works best alone, no one to worry about, no one to bark orders at him like he’s some snotty rich lady’s pampered purse pooch. He’s always been destined to be a solo act, forced to wander the earth alone and in pain blah, blah, blah, catch the rest on the back page of next month’s issue or whatever.

Being alone, relatively speaking, gives him a chance to get his brain together. In between torturing drug pushers with car batteries and dusty chopsticks, he thinks about this…situation.

“I mean, he’s like a hefty bag full of crazy and rotten mayonnaise all mixed together to form some kind of disgusting cesspool of entitlement and assholery,” Wade explains, twirling Bea in his hands, testing the balance. She took a real beating against some bullets, but his girl held up perfectly. Bea & Arthur always have his back when his guns run short or just don’t show up, because budget.

“And I got a habit of always doing the worst thing for myself,” he sighs, sheathing Bea and shaking his head. He really really does, and this is just further proof of said character flaw, or is that a perk? Fan choice.

Right now, at least, he’s not doing the absolute worst thing possible. He’s just watching a guy slowly drown to death in a kiddie pool, he wanted to do bathtub but how cliché would that be? Besides, kiddie pools make clean up soo easy.

The guy’s feet are flailing around but his head ain’t going anywhere, Wade made double sure. He got a nice leather belt, the kind his dad beat him with, and it’s strapped around the fucker’s neck, then he got that attached to a couple,  five , cinder blocks. No matter what kinda strength near dying gives regular people, this hombre ain’t going nowhere.

“So, shacking up with Frankly Fucked Up would be the absolute worst thing I could do in this continuity, meaning, it’ll happen,” he reasons, for himself, not Deady Mcdeaderson. He thinks better when he talks these things out, it’s easier to keep thoughts straight when they hang in front his face for a couple seconds. Ah the joys of fourth wall breaking knowledge, he gets to see the text blurbs and use them to his own devious advantage.

Letting that British fuckhat touch him is a bad idea, terrible really, but it’s what he deserves right? If he wants to do this whole angsty, suffer-suffer thing right, then he’s gotta find a coping method that’s inherently destructive. There can’t be anything worse than fucking Francis out there, not in this continuity baby.

Plus, Francis ain’t nothing like Vanessa. He’s British for one, tall, whiter than most white people Wade knows, and he  _ is  _ a white people. Francis Freeman hates Wade Wilson, professionally and personally, the fucker exudes a nice, potent aura of “ _ Fuck You, Wade _ ”, and Wade can respect that. Wade likes to think he’s the same, except for Francis.

They’d be terrible for each other, like the world’s most reciprocal hate-fuck, only this ain’t gonna end in some kind of catharsis and grudging love. This is gonna end the same way all of Wade’s important relationships end, bloody, macabre, and just a touch ironic. But hey, just cause he knows how this’ll finish up, doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it while it lasts.

Ness loved to make him feel good with everything but pain, she was a sweetheart that way.

“The best domme a man could ask for,” he tells the guy that’s still kicking around weakly. Now there’s a fighter, two minutes in and he’s still conscious enough to move? That’s some x-games shit right there.

Francis though, ohohoho  _ Francis _ , he’s a sadist through and through. Wade remembers those crooked smiles and dark eyes looming over him for weeks and weeks. Always watching, always splitting into grins. He and Cunningham used to have this running gag that the lab coat was less about good lab habits and more to hide the raging boner Francis le fuck always had going.

The asshole loved dishing out pain, Wade thinks it’s because he can’t feel it anymore. And hey, if all his nerves are crisped up, then does that mean he can’t feel at all? And, more importantly, if his nervous system is shot, then how does he cum? Is it a mental thing? All in his head? Yikes, now that was just making it hard on all those poor fans out there, how were they supposed to work around that little caveat?

But hey, if Wade’s gonna let señor cabrón fuck him, then at least he gets the satisfaction of knowing Francis can’t cum. Not easy at least. Cause Wade’s gonna let Francis fuck him, it’s practically decided already, just a few more pages of dynamic and inventive torture, a little more monologuing and he’s basically there.

Cause Francis ain’t nothing like Vanessa, not a thing, so there’s zippo chance of Wade thinking of her at all. He’s gonna be thinking about the pain, the lancing, aching, breaking, burning pain that Francis is excellent at providing, and not a thing else. Not soft skin rubbing against his bumpy, scarred self. No teasing fingers playing down his chest and around his cock, not even a pair of lips whispering dirty shit in his ear.

This is gonna be terrible, which is perfect.

“Anyway, I’ve talked enough, now it’s your turn,” he grunts, cutting the cables keeping Jimmy boy stuck in the water. Predictably, Jamesy doesn’t wiggle, unconscious out people don’t do much in his experience but who knows. Someday he might find a zombie or another unkillable motherfucker, it’s a big wide world of What If? (Issue #34).

The rest of the mission is blissfully taxing, no chance to think about shit when he’s interrogating Jiminy Cricket. A lot of screaming, a lot of gushing blood, and a fire fight when the rest of the gang realise their supplier man’s missing.

Wade’s in top form, hacking and slashing, and living up to every last bit of his name. In the end, he doesn’t get the info Cable’s looking for because these douche fucks don’t have it, so he gets to go travelling again. From Colombia to Mexico, back to the States, hounding the drugs and money, and definitely not thinking about Francis.

By the time he finally tracks down the tippy, toppest dog, he’s left a nice trail of bloodshed and mayhem in his wake, and maybe a few limbs too. Deadpool gets his man though, he always does, and it’s three weeks later, somehow, by the time he’s on a plane back to the great NY of C. He probably doesn’t spend enough time thinking about all this but that’s him all over.

Fuck It ain’t really the most intellectual thing. Fuck It is when you’re at the end of your rope and there’s not much else available. Previously, Fuck It involved a shady lab, shadier experiments, a British shit swizzler, superpowers and at least two fucking montages. Currently, Fuck It still involves a British shit swizzler but there’s a GI Jack Off from the future and some highly illegal eco-terrorism.

Ah, the life of a successful merc was never boring. He can practically hear Ness screaming at him from the afterlife, but Wade’s real good at ignoring the shit he doesn’t wanna hear. Like obeying the wear seatbelts sign and not fucking his evil, ex-torturer.

* * *

“Do I need to ask if you’re ready for this? Any safe words I should know about?” Francis coos, mocking him just like before, and Wade’s regretting this. This whole hatefuck plan, the cuffs, the chair, and the conveniently abandoned warehouse down by the docks where no one can hear him scream.

Francis’ got his whole butcher doctor thing going again, a mobile table with all kinds of pointy things, and some rubber gloves cause why not? If he’s going for the doctor schtick though, Wade would’ve recommended a face mask, but hey, can’t cover up that  _ pretty _ face now can we? Yeah, Wade’s regretting this hardcore but if there’s one thing he’s  _ not _ , it’s a quitter. Mama might’ve raised a manic, homicidal mercenary with no regard for human life, but she didn’t raise no quitter. If he wants to get technical, Mama didn’t raise him at all, just stuck him in front the tv until his brain dribbled out of his ears.

Which he might be doing a repeat of, not sure, they’d see where the evening took them. Right now, it’s looking like some dislocation, bruising, and maybe a bit of light stabbing with the possibility of major blood loss. It’s all up to Francis really, Wade’s cuffed to a rickety old chair and Franky’s got a table of sharp objects. Oh yeah, he’s really feeling the Amy Adams in the air.

“Yeah, I choose Chimichanga, not because I like the fucking things but cause that word is fun to say. Take note fanboys everywhere,” he grumbles, testing the cuffs around his wrists and wow, Fucko really knew what he was doing huh? Strong leather cuffs already cutting into his wrists because why waste money on padding for a jackass that didn’t need it? Very thoughtful, very economic.

Hands behind his back, ankles strapped into a spreader bar that’s hooked around the chair legs, mask on and nothing else. Full commando baby, all his warped, scarred, poorly transplanted flesh on display for whoever wanted to take a look see. Not that many people would, his skin’s a disaster zone and he knows it, and Francis knows it to.

He’s got a wormy smirk twisting around on those thin lips of his. He’s also tossing a scalpel in the air, end over end, and catching it however it lands, he doesn’t care about the blade after all. What’s a nicked vein anyway?

“Maybe I should’ve brought a gag, yeah? Shut you up for once,” Francis suggests, wheeling over his fancy doctor table, finally ready to get this show on the road. Wade’s glad there’s no genuine concern or anything hiding behind that arrogant British accent, he doesn’t think he could go through with this if there was.

This is just sex, and pain, a lot of pain, and that’s just what he wants. He wants Francis smirking down at him like he’s a used condom on the ground, like he’s a little floater in the toilet after flushing twice. Wade wants to be  **_nothing_ ** , and Francis is exactly the kind of jackass that can do that.

“Now brace yourself, this may hurt,” Francis hums, and wow those fucking jokes don’t get  _ any _ better, even when he’s specifically asking for it.

“Go fu- _ hck _ ,” is about as far as he gets before the “ _ light stabbing _ ” takes centre stage. Francis ain’t pulling any punches folks, man goes for the jugular, literally, and comes out smiling.

At least Wade thinks that’s a smile, really hard to make out with all the blood loss and pain going on here. There’s blood everywhere, splattering on his mask, spattering on the floor, dribbling down his chest and sliding slick down his cock. Ha, weird how he can feel every individual drippa drop of blood tracing its way down his dick when his head feels like a cross between wet cement and sparkling water.

There’s pops and cracks going off in his head, crackles of pain sparking behind his eyes, centring on his neck of course. Usually when he gets his throat slashed, it’s a proper slash, ear to ear, California necktie style, this ain’t that. Francis stabbed him in the throat nice and neat, and it’s like he’s back on that fucking table.

He’s strapped down, head full of noises he can’t figure out, bleeding, bloody, and in pain. He’s staring wide eyed, behind a mask this time but still staring, and he’s thinking about Ness. How much he loves her, how much he wants to see her, and just like all those other times, Francis makes him forget.

There’s no Angel Dust here to beat him senseless but Francis is strong too, strong enough to break his jaw with a punch, quick n precise. Then his nose with a left hook Wade sees comin through the haze, one he could avoid but doesn’t. Cause he wants this, he deserves this, he’s a fucking piece of shit that’s getting off on this.

On feeling his bones snap and break, cracking and crunching, it’s sickening, makes him wanna throw up and never stop, but his jaw’s not working. Pain, pain, pain, it’s all the same. Lighting hot and numbing, or it’s an ache, or it’s a throb, or it’s Francis slamming Wade’s face into his knee.

“- _ uck _ !” he slurs, letting his head drop against his chest, which is already heaving. Barely five minutes in and he’s already fighting for a breath and drooling blood and tooth shards. And it’s so much worse than he remembers, hotter, harder, thicker.

He can feel the air whistling through the hole in his throat and his stomach lurches, sick. He can feel every last splurt of blood fountaining out of him  _ and  _ he can feel the creepy-crawly burn of his body healing itself. It’s a hot, wet mess of sensation that’s got him gasping even though the pain’s choking the air outta his lungs. The hole in his throat is healed over but the blood’s still wet all over and, oh yeah, he’s hard, really hard. 

Pain gets him off now apparently, no matter who’s giving it; a sexy bear from the future or a jackass twunk from the landfill.

“What’s the matter handsome? You’re not giving up on me already, are you?” Francis tsks, grabbing Wade by the chin and doing that super cliché tip the head up thing. Villain edition, cause those fingers are digging mighty hard in to his still healing jaw there, and Wade pulls his split lips into a smile.

Francis is doing that not really a smile of his, but his pupils are dilated too, and there’s a ugly blush scattered across his cheeks. Seriously, the thing’s blotchy and purply in places and doesn’t look as sexy as the director probably thought it did. Still, ole Franky boy’s getting off on this too, Wade always knew he did, why else would he go into the torture business, other than exorbitant amounts of money?

“Oh, don’t you worry big boy, when we’re done, it’s  _ my _ fucking turn,” he spits, as best one can while wearing a fucking mask. There’s a nasty mix of blood and spit and tooth chips in his mouth and a tummy turning pain in his fucking face, visceral is it? When all he can think about is the throb-pulse-ache in his dislocated jaw and still healing throat?

Francis cracks Wade’s head back with a neat uppercut, knuckles digging into the soft place just his chin. His head hits the back of the chair the same time his jaw slots back into place, wood splintering while lights burst across his eyes. He blinks and smiles, nothing but poppin colours and bone breaking  **_ow’s_ ** , fuck yeah. Then his nose does an ugly crunchy thing as it straightens up, and his skin feels like an arthritic ninety-year-old named Deborah is knitting it back together with rusty needles. Short, less fun description? It hurts real good.

Back in one piece in less than three minutes, not bad, and he’s still got that lingering ache under his skin. Fuck he loves that ache, wants so much more of it, but he’s gotta ask. Rules of the game bay-bee. Gotta say “ _ Yes I’d love to be fucked up, please and thank you Mr Torturer _ ” or he won’t get any of those sweet, sick ouchies.

“Better get your shots in now Agent 47,” Wade taunts, cause that’s what he does. He pushes and pushes until shit breaks and fucks him over. Clearly Francis is expecting some begging but Wade’s never gonna do that, he’ll have to take what he gets.

Which, Wade’s gotta give this to the guy, he knows when he’s beat. Francis opens his mouth, stops, licks his teeth, and shuts his mouth with a click that Wade can hear over the pounding in his head. Then, he gets bitch slapped; open palm, right across the cheek, and it throws his whole body to the side.

The crack of skin on leather is  _ loud _ , louder than the static in his head, and it stings like a  _ fucker _ , and Wade moans.

He can feel a bruise blossoming across half his face, puffing up and purpling, and it’s so warm, like Ness’ hand on his cheek. The warm blood on his lips could be her thumb, stroking, and the tingly, ants bitey pain that comes after could be her biting her way down his jaw. His cheeks, both of em, burn bitter hot as he thinks about Ness.

How dare he think about her right now? He’s getting his shit wrecked and it’s reminding him of her? Ah shit, he’s more fucked up than he thought, but that doesn’t stop the gush and pulse and rush of blood under his skin. ‘S like a fucking poker sticking him from the inside out, and the only question left is; which is hotter, his face or his dick?

Jury’s out for the minute but it’s a close call. His rapidly healing face’s got the same pulse fluttering along the veins as his dick, the same ache throbbing hard in his cock. There’s blood and pre-cum dribbling down his dick, mixing together all nasty and disgusting, like the mess in his mouth. He thinks about…fuck Stan Lee  _ help  _ him, but he thinks about Ness again.

Ness standing next to Francis who’s doing his Villain Smirk™ and wiping his bloody knuckles off on Wade’s shoulder.

Wade thinks about Nessa there, smiling at him all gentle and loving and beautiful. Imagines her whispering something to Francis and both of em laughing at him, cause he’s pathetic, he’s disgusting, he’s a fucking pervert with a fetish for death. The Ness in his head touches his dick, runs her nails along the veins, rubs the tip with her thumb, and slaps it. Just slaps his cock, again, again, until it’s purple-red and he’s got tears in his eyes, fighting to breathe.

“Now listen to me, Wade Wilson, you’re nothing, yeah? Your girl dies and you’re all mopey cause you can’t. It’s pathetic, sad really,” Francis laughs, snapping him out of his sick little fantasy back into his sick little reality. Another slap really seals the deal, and his cock bobs with the sting.

“You want me to hurt you cause no one else will,” is punctuated with a kick to the knee, hard and precise, all the best things about this Fucker. Quick and precise, even if the pain of his knee breaking is more cartilage pulling apart with a pop, tendons tearing slow and wet, than precise. The kick’s quick, the damage’s precise, but the pain slows everything down to a crawl, so Wade can feel every little prickle of agony.

He’s gasping, fighting for a breath that refuses to come, and his cock’s still rock hard, feeding off all those chemicals fighting in his head. Signals getting crossed somewhere along the line cause this shit is terrible, nothing compared to what happens in the field but this is—fuck it’s  _ different _ okay?

This is  _ personal _ , bullet with his name on it instead of a grenade to whom it may concern. ‘S specific and clinical and precise and all those fancy words his brain’s spitting out. Spitting out words and boiling away in all those feel good chemicals, or feel bad, ‘s all the same shit anyway, right?

The first knee’s trying to figure out up from down when Francis takes out the second one, this time coming from the side and wrenching the bone out of the socket. And Wade  _ howls _ as the muscles rip.

“You want me to hurt you because you think you deserve it. For letting your girl die? You really are a fucking disgrace,” Francis growls, grabbing him by the chin again and tilting Wade’s face up. This time, there’s something hard, some weird signal going on there that Wade’s too busy hurting to figure out.

Half the blood in his fucking body is rushing through his head, he can feel it pounding hard between his eyes, like a fucking monkey with a mallet beating away at his skull. The other half is in his dick and it  _ hurts _ , shit he’s never been this hard without a cockring or something. And he…well he doesn’t  _ think _ he can cum yet.

The angry build is there, the pain-pleasure-pain- _ pain- _ **_pain_ ** is there shoving him along, dragging him when it has to, but there’s no edge to fall off. Maybe he needs more? Some more sounds about right.

“You could’ve been amazing, the perfect soldier, now you’re just a twat in a mask,” Francis tsks, switching his grip from Wade’s chin to his head, grabbing the back of his mask. Personally, Wade thinks he’s jealous of it, fancy dancy  _ Francis _ didn’t think of wearing a mask and being the hottest new British villain on the block. Personally, he also thinks Francis just likes watching his victim’s faces while they squirm for him, masks get in the way of all that fresh fear.

“It’s a shame really,” he sighs, leaning in close, yanking Wade’s head back until they’re eye to eye. It’s actually kind of intimate, staring into each other’s eyes like this, but not too much. Francis can’t see Wade’s eyes, there’s the mask between them, and Wade’s never been so grateful for it. The buffer, the distance.

Francis has a knife now, he’s tapping the blade against Wade’s thigh, and it’s cold on his burning up skin. The knife’s sharp, course it’s fucking sharp, and it’s serrated, he can feel the smooth pattern beating its way up his leg. And when that fucking sharp knife starts biting into his skin, see-sawing into the meat, slip-sliding right down and grating against bone.

Francis stares at Wade, Wade stares at Francis, and blood dribbles between them. Francis keeps cutting and Wade says nothing. His whole world is focused down to a point, a tiny little point where his skin is splitting open and disgustingly hot blood is soaking his thigh, covering his cock all over again.

He can feel the knife forcing its way through thicker bits of scar tissue, because there’s less nerves in the skin and muscle there. He can feel the tip digging a groove in his bone, the grating travels all the way up to his teeth and locks his jaw shut. The steady drip-drop-drip of blood on concrete is like a leaky faucet, echoing in his head, bouncing around and pinging off his tongue, on fucking  _ God _ he can taste the silvery, stainless steel at the back of his throat.

His brain is probably overloading on all those fight or flight chemicals, and those pain ones and the sex ones too. Making him hypersensitive and one hundred percent regretting it. He’s hyperaware of every breath whistling through his lungs and the blood leaking sluggishly from his thigh and how hot Francis’ fingers are through his mask. He can feel where the mask is rubbing bad against his skin, the neck’s ‘posed to fit into the top, not rest against his skin like this. Fuck, all he can even  _ hear _ is the wet  _ schlp _ of skin splitting under a weapon made specifically for that.

Francis works his way up ever so sadistically slow, taking his time to  _ push _ the knife through hard bits of muscle and  _ jerk _ it through veins ‘n arteries. Up-up-up his thigh then his hip and deep into his guts, hilt flush against his spasming muscles. Something gets nicked, something else gets punctured and Wade’s drooling again.

Flesh’s splitting and knitting, but his body’s too wrecked to register the sensations as separate, either that or his brain’s not picking up the right signals. Probably that one, maybe, he’s a little too... _ yeah _ to figure it out. Hard to figure out anything when there’s a knife steadily making its way through his stomach, he’s heard of ulcers but he’s pretty sure he’s got em beat by a mile.

The knife doesn’t stop, no matter what’s in front of it, Francis just keeps going and going like that fucking battery bunny. Keeps his hand moving, keeps his eyes on Wade, and Wade knows he’s about five seconds from losing it. His fingers are going numb behind his back and his heart’s about to break its way out of his ribcage. And his  _ cock _ , fuck his cock is still hard, rejuvenated by that nice splash of burning hot blood.

He’s either gonna cum in the next ten seconds or he’s gonna dislocate something to get out of those fucking cuffs. He’s not sure which, could be both actually, he’s unpredictable like that. Cause, cause,  _ cause _ the pain it’s ah, it’s uh  _ a lot _ . The steady slide of metal through his skin is—it’s not…

“Deep breath handsome,” Francis purrs, and Wade’s too unfocussed to even understand the words, forget about following them.

He barely connects the words to the knife hurka-jerking up and breaking ribs and slicing into his lungs, shredding the shit, then it hits his heart and he  _ feels _ it. Fuck he feels it. Through the mouthful of blood and lightning strike pain throwing him into a full on fucking seizure. He can feel his fucking heart getting chopped in fucking half, talk about broken hearts club, right?

Maybe he screams when the knife rips through his chest and pokes out his throat but y’know who can keep track of these things? Not him, and he’s pretty damn great at never getting out of his head.

But his heart gives a few halved  _ schlops _ before it gives up. The last thing Wade sees before falling down, down, down is liquid gunmetal blue.

…

…

…

When Wade comes back, everything is dark, and his arms are numb. He thinks maybe Francis poked out his eyes and has to concentrate past the ache in his chest to figure out if the healing going on is eye related or mouth related. Survey says…mouth! He’s missing a fucking tongue, well no, it’s not  _ missing _ , it’s just not in his mouth, or attached to his mouth.

“Nahhhh,” he groans, best he can do with no tongue, and tries his best to squirm around. There’s cuffs around his wrists, and his feet are tied down, so he’s still in the warehouse and his cock’s still hard, he can feel it through the burn of his stomach patching itself back together.

He's so hard, shit fucking damn it!

“Well hello there beautiful,” Francis whispers right into his fucking ear. Wade swings his head around, looking, forcing his eyes as wide as they can go but he still can’t fucking see.

“Haaa?” he grunts, tugging on the cuffs, and hissing when a rib slips back in place. Well at least he doesn’t have to fucking regrow all of ‘em, Francis was nice enough to leave them where they were while he was out, hurts more to have them reattach but it’s quicker. Not that it matters.

His lungs are mangled, cut up, but they’re expanding and getting some air to his fucked up brain, so that’s nice. There’s also his tongue slowly regrowing from a nub, that’s nice too, in a “ _ holy mommy fucking shit that hurts! _ ” kinda way. What’s not nice is that blood drying all over his fucking body, it’s tacky and gross and definitely not FDA approved. Oh yeah, and he’s still harder than the Thing at an all you can eat pizza buffet.

“Do you need a hand?” Francis asks, resting a warm hand on Wade’s stomach, fingers tracing the new, puckered skin. Those fucking fingers are the reason there’s new skin there in the first place, but Wade’s traitor body is shuddering into the touch, sending all those feel good signals to his still healing brain. What a fucking slut.

“C’mon gorgeous, use your words for me,” Francis croons, all teasing and cute, shit that’s fucked up. All of this is fuckity fucked up, and it’s what he wanted.  What Wade  _ wants _ . He wants to cum all over himself, multiple times please, and he wants to cum when his spine snaps, or when his head splatters on the floor, or when his heart stops. He wants it hard and nasty and sickening.

He can’t talk, no words with half a tongue, but he bucks up. Gets his legs under him and struggles against the straps keeping him down. Can’t say a word but he’s the merc with a mouth, he knows how to make himself heard loud ‘n clear baby doll.

“Alright then,” Francis murmurs, fingers digging into the muscle, nails breaking skin, “actions.”

To be utterly honest, Wade’s got no fucking idea what happens next. One second he’s sitting, cock hard, getting ready for a down and dirty handjob, next he’s on the fucking floor. The sound of splintering wood registers the same time the splintered wood jams into his ass, his  **_ass_ ** , and his shoulders pop out the sockets cause whoops, someone landed on ‘em.

The ground’s cold under him and his hands are still cuffed together, even if Francis did something fancy and dramatic to break the chair and get Wade on the ground. Damn, he wishes he could’ve seen it, but he’s sure that shit’s gonna look positively orgasmic on the replay.

Now, he’s on the floor, tied up and helpless, gee real familiar. Wade’s not even surprised when a heavy size twelve drops on his stomach and drags out a perfect little “ _ oof!” _ of pain. He can feel the fuckin tread imprinting itself on his guts, his shits are gonna look so weird, if they don’t get beat out of him of course.

There’s nothing creative about getting kicked in the jaw, teeth snapping together painfully, and nothing special about the steel toe digging into his spleen but hey, they’re classics. Kicking a motherfucker while they’re down is some real Golden Age shit and who are they to mess with some classics? Classics are good, classics leave him tasting that nasty cheesy flavour of broken teeth and seeing all kinds of lights busting across his eyes.

Classics have him squirming around on the floor, trying to get a hand up to cover his face, or his throat. Francis knew what he was doing with those cuffs though cause Wade’s strong folks but he ain’t strong enough to bust outta these. There’s nothing he can do to stop the kicks, he’s just gotta lay there and take it like the little pain slut he is.

Cause oh yeah, he  _ likes _ this. Breaking bones and spitting up blood are exactly what the doctor ordered. There’s no room to think about anything but the pain, sick and dull and sharp and stinging, Francis knows how to make a man feel all kinds of pain. And Wade’s choking on every last flavour.

“Nothing to say?” Francis taunts, turning Wade over with the toe of his booth, like Wade’s something nasty he doesn’t really wanna touch.

Wade lays there, gasping for breath on his back, trying to get the words straight in his head. Trying to get Francis to finally touch his cock that’s aching like another broken bone, still hard, painfully fucking hard. There could be wood splinters in his dick and he wouldn’t know, can’t feel anything but the heart beat pulse and throb.

Still can’t see anything, Francis probably tied something over his mask, covered up the eyes, but Wade’s good with not seeing, makes everything sharper. He wouldn’t be able to feel the peel and pull of his tongue finish regrowing if he could see. And he definitely wouldn’t wheeze like a dying dog when Francis stepped on his fucking dick.

Steel heel digging into the base, mashing down on his balls and pushing burning bile into his throat. Then Franky really bears down, stepping on the length of his cock, grinding the ball of his foot into the head, tearing the skin. Wade can fucking  _ feel _ the skin tearing, sick and slow, peeling away layer by layer, then the blood trickling out, tiny little spurts dribbling down onto his stomach.

Ha, ‘s funny, why’s it funny? Not sure, can’t think around the blaring in his head, ow, ouch, FUCK. Red hot in the dark, a siren alarm, flashing, twirling around and around. Red’s his colour, red’s the only colour.

“Just one word,” Francis growls, lifting off and Wade moans, low and guttural, oh  _ Jesus _ . The breath that sucker punches its way into his chest feels like a spike getting shoved down his throat. The cuffs on his wrists feel like blades sawing into his skin, ready to grate away at the bone. Even the fucking wood under his back feels like broke glass and metal filings, everything hurts and everything’s fantastic.

His cock is leaking all over his stomach, blood and precum, and ain’t that just dandy? He’s so close, so so close, just a little more.

“Harder,” he grunts, spitting tooth chips and blood, oooh there’s definitely some internal bleeding. A little haemorrhaging?

And well, we all know how this goes.

…

…

…

Comes back with a slap to the face and a retch. Spittle’s watery and bloody in his mouth, and everything’s one big-no, y’know what? Everything’s shitty and that’s all he’s gonna say on the matter. Body’s healed though, ribs, throat, stomach, even his dick’s good as new again, and hard.

“Fuck,” he moans, rolling his head, rotating those shoulders. He’s still on the floor, cold, shivering actually, and he still can’t see.

“Back again gorgeous?” Francis asks, voice close, closer than before, must be crouching by Wade’s head. Smug fucker, killed Wade twice now, going for the hattrick?

“Fuck you,” Wade groans, wiggling his bloated fingers, those are not gonna be fun when the cuffs come off. All those tingly pins ‘n needles while the blood rushes back to the dead tissue, might lose a couple actually, wait for those to heal.

“I don’t stick my dick in crazy darling,” Francis laughs, happy as a munchkin on meth. Wade grits his teeth when a hand drops on his thigh, fingers tracing the scars there, is he gonna lose his legs next? Another knife or are they going guns this time? Been a while,  a week , since he’s had some lead ripping through his body and making him swiss cheese.

Likes the tingly feeling in his brain when a nice big calibre goopifies his sad little liver.

“I  _ will _ lend you a hand though,” Francesca says, patting Wade’s thigh like he’s a watermelon at the store. Oh yeah baby, is he nice and thick? Ripe and ready for the eating?

Compared to the whole…thing that just happened, all the burning, aching, throbbing, stinging, paralysing, full body seizing and organ failing  _ pain _ , this isn’t so bad. Francisco’s hand is dry, ain’t got no blood on him, and his grip’s too tight around Wade’s much abused cock but hey, that’s what he wants.

The dry drag is uncomfortable and bliss, all mixed together in an unholy union, and Wade’s eyes glaze over. Can’t see worth a shit but everything still does that little sex haze, fuzzy-muzzy thing. His brain’s probably broke again, whoops, someone should really fix that shit before people got hurt.

“That’s it Wade, show me how much you want it,” Francine coaxes, whisper low, just as dry as his hand. Except nope, his hand is moving a little slicker now, and Wade’s rocking into the loose fist, huh, weird. His feet are still tied up, but he doesn’t need legs to hump something, they’d be nice, but he’s made do with less.

Compared to the brutal double death, this is heaven. The hand around his dick, just barely moving at all, and the jackass attached to it, are godsends. The pleasure, and it is pleasure, no crazy signal mix-up, simmers low and soft in his gut, lazy. Personally, he already feels wrung out and beat boneless, he can breathe again and doesn’t have that itch under his skin anymore.

They could finish up right here cause Wade’s already got what he wanted, the beating, the breaking. They could but he doesn’t like the tightness in his crotch, blue-balls are a bitch, take it from the guy that’s been cockblocked by death way too many times.

He’s gotten off in worse ways too, tied up and humping a feather, tied down with a vibrator in his ass and a dick gag halfway down his throat. A hand is more than enough to get him off, just takes a little work, a building ache in his hips and a semi-dislocation of his bound-up wrists. It’s less of a fireworks pound in his head and more of a slow build and  _ schlop _ of his heart.

Wade’s sinking down into his bones as he cums, liquid and smooth. There’s no spurt-splurt of cum painting his stomach, no splashing on his chest or punched out, wrecked scream breaking free of his throat. He cums and it’s like falling across a finish line after running for a week straight, it’s just the end and thank fucking god he’s finally there.

He can feel his cum dribbling down his cock, over Francois’ fingers and pooling on his stomach. His heart’s beating a little harder in his chest and his breath’s a little shorter but all in all, not the most impressive orgasm he’s ever had, which is a relief. His brain’s already running Crysis, he doesn’t think he can handle Skyrim too.

Somewhere out there in the big wide multiverse a Deadpool specific merc just crossed him off the list because that’s the least Deadpooly thing he’s ever thought in his entire life.

“What a fucking mess,” Francis complains, says? Wade’s not sure, doesn’t care, he got what he wanted, and everyone can get outta fuck town.

“I know right?” he croaks, grinning his best shit eating grin and sighing happily. Oh yeah, that’s some sequel worthy shit right there, or at least the low budget porn parody. Snuff of course with a side order of necrophilia, for those big bucks.

Thankfully there’s no more chitter-chatter, which is another reason he’s crossed off that Deadpool hit list. Wade doesn’t wanna talk while Francesca gets the cuffs off, he just wants to stew in his own everything for a while.

Francis even leaves him there, rips the blindfold off his face and dumps some clothes on his chest, but leaves him all the same. To lie there, slack-jawed, drooling on himself while he basks in the glory of his wildest masochist playscene ever. Ness must be so disappointed right now but she’s dead, and he’s not, and he won’t ever be so who cares what she thinks?

He’s only gotta care what he thinks now, no one else. And if he wants to lie here, buck ass naked, covered in his own cum and blood, then he can do that. And he does that, for hours and hours. Through the shakes that come during the crash after the endorphin high, through the painful losing and regrowing of necrotised fingers.

Through all the self-loathing and hatred and urge to die,  _ die, _ fucking  **_die_ ** already, and the numbness that comes way after. He got what he wanted, just what he wanted, and he lies there in not-a-gutter soaking it all in. God his life's fucked. 

**Author's Note:**

> the title is based on that one Harley quote after she beats Joker's ass. I thought it was appropriate.


End file.
